


Just Communication

by warbreaker



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Character Study, Kinda, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, Pre-Canon, also the pre-canon point here is kind of nebulous considering the remake so like, just go with it ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:20:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24352780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warbreaker/pseuds/warbreaker
Summary: Six months into his house arrest, Rufus starts to feel the loneliness of isolation. He decides to vent his frustration in the only real way available to him.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 50





	Just Communication

**Author's Note:**

> Really hoping that this fic is at least somewhat cathartic for those of us living that #QuarantineLife and starting to go crazy in isolation.
> 
> Dedicated to all my hoes at the New Era Turks+Rufus discord server. Hope y'all like it, because this was my first time writing Rufus in at least 12 or 13 years.

Six months.

It was six months to the day when Rufus finally started to feel the suffocating isolation of his house arrest start to press down on him.

Insight came as a lightning strike to his psyche. All at once, he realized that the background music that he had playing was getting on his last nerve, the pristine black-and-white walls of his own home were blinding, and the very state of being inside of his home office made him sick to his stomach.

His reaction was quick and feverish. In a seemingly singular, fluid motion, he killed the music with an aggressive swipe at his phone before he shoved the device across the surface of his desk and stormed up out of his seat. His office chair drifted off to the side behind him, and the seat spun uselessly — silently — in place, even as the wheels reached their aimless destination.

For the first time in his life, the work that he was doing felt meaningless. It was a distant, abstract thing in his mind — some lofty, transient goal held by a man who wasn't him, working in and towards a world in which he didn't reside. The names, words, numbers, and plans that were still displayed within the dull glow of the monitor on his desk became a blur of a fairytale, meant to be followed through by the ghosts of imaginary allies and subordinates that he'd invented in his head.

The muscles in his neck and shoulders began to tense as those thoughts crystallized further in his mind. Rufus ran both hands through his hair and exhaled a heavy breath, hoping to expel some of this ever-building frustration and impotent anger, but he found no relief there. All he found was that his hair was getting longer than it ever had any right to have been — and wasn't that the perfect metaphor for this whole thing? Time had reached a state of meaninglessness for him, and yet it relentlessly carried on all the same. Outside of these walls, the world continued on exactly as it always had, and it did so without him and without regard to the state he was in.

Logically, he knew that this line of thinking was counterproductive. What he was feeling currently wasn't real — but that was part of the problem. _Nothing_ felt real, and he was wholly under-equipped as a person to handle such a wild shift in his emotional state in any direction. 

Rufus Shinra didn't have mood swings. He didn't have outbursts. He was always composed. Always working. Always prepared. Always in control.

But on house arrest, the only control that he had was through text on a screen or words spoken through a phone. The only voices he ever heard were disembodied and therefore depersonalized, and for all he knew, the person on the other end may not even genuinely exist at all.

Those were the thoughts that caused his vision to blur and his head to spin. Anxiety masquerading as irritation and disgust webbed its way through his nervous system. It tingled and numbed the tips of his fingers, and each expended breath that escaped from between his slightly-parted lips came out as a shallow, pathetic little thing. He broke out into a frantic pacing back and forth across the white carpet of his office, and the dull thuds of his socked feet carrying his body weight and hitting the floor were deafening.

As he reached the far wall for what felt like the fifteenth time, Rufus resented the sight of it. He didn't stop before or as he approached and leaned against it with both palms open and his fingers outstretched across the cool, white-marbled black stone. The design was overly luxurious and ostentatious, and in that moment, he _hated_ it. He pushed against it with the full strength of his shoulders and back as though to knock the whole thing down and release himself from his prison. The drive to tear the whole house down — to rip out the walls with his bare hands — was all-encompassing and overwhelming, and he could feel the failure to accomplish this task pounding in his head when those very walls refused to move.

Biting back a shout of frustration, Rufus shoved himself away from the surface and spun on his heels. It wasn't as though anyone would hear him if he just started screaming in anger, but he liked to think that he still had at least some of his dignity left. All the same, he couldn't remember — and didn't care to recall — the last time he felt so restless and useless. His hands found their way back into his hair, running through it once as though to wipe these thoughts and feelings clean from his skull.

As his arms dropped back down to his side, something inside of him snapped.

A wave of realization washed over him in a slow-creeping fashion, and he could feel the expression he wore on his face change with it. His eyes widened as his sight returned to normal, and he set his jaw as the tension eased off from his shoulders.

And then he began to laugh.

It was a wild, manic, barking laughter — the kind that had him leaning back where he stood and pressing a hand against his forehead as he shook and trembled. He doubled over in the next second, very nearly breaching the line of hysterics as he moved his hand onto his chest and shook his head. The sound of his own voice reverberating off of the walls was shocking to hear in the otherwise silence of his office, and somehow, that made the whole thing even funnier.

This was a test. This was some bullshit test devised by his useless, impotent father. The old man wanted to see if Rufus could stomach sitting alone in a room and delegating tasks to people.

Rufus would pass this little test, but it ultimately didn't matter. No matter how much time he had to spend here in this house, in this room, it wouldn't change anything. The old man would fall, and when he did, Rufus would run things his own way. No amount of punishment or testing or attempted grooming would change that.

Emboldened by these thoughts, Rufus re-straightened his posture as a smirk split across his face.

"After all, when have I ever given the old man what he wanted?" he asked no one.

He headed over to his desk, grabbed his phone, and made for the door. He may have been stuck in this house, but he still had options left to him. A few quiet, breathy chuckles continued to bubble out of his throat as he made his way down the hallway, tugging at the buttons of his shirt all the while. This was hardly the end of the world, and there were better ways for him to vent his frustrations.

* * *

The air was growing thin around him. Steam billowed from Rufus's shower, visibly circling and rising in the room — though he knew that it was being helped in no small part by his own rising body temperature and the hot, gasping breaths that he was releasing into the air. Water beat steadily against his shoulders and his back as he leaned forward, supporting himself against the wall with his left forearm. His right hand was fully occupied, wrapped tightly around his cock and stroking with brisk, rhythmic motions.

With his pulse already elevated as it was when he'd first stepped into the shower, it hadn't taken him long to get hard. Gaining any real satisfaction from touching himself, however, seemed to be much more of an uphill climb. At first, he was worried that he'd somehow forgotten how to fuck himself properly — but then it dawned on him. Rufus hadn't really masturbated as an emotional coping mechanism since he was a teenager. He was simply getting older; his mind kept wandering, so his body wasn't responding the way it ought to have been.

Funny how, even here, even now, he still insisted on figuring out the answers to everything.

He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, exhaling deeply through his nose. All he could do now was attempt to focus on the physical sensations of hot water striking his tense muscles and the friction between his hand and the smooth, slick skin of his cock.

How long had it been, he wondered. How long since the last time that hand belonged to someone else? Could he even recall the feeling of another person's breath against his neck, or the pressure on his lips from a hot, open-mouthed kiss? When was the last time someone whispered the words _I want you inside me_ against the line of his jaw? Or asked him so sweetly and desperately _Please, Rufus, please…_?

He'd been in isolation for a mere six months, but it'd been much longer than that since he'd experienced the intimate touch of another human being. Life had gotten hectic, plans and events started to gear up, and things like sex fell to the wayside. It was only just now that he started to realize that he missed it. He missed the feeling of bare hands roving across his shoulders and his chest. He missed the frantic grasping at his hips, his waist, and his back — the bite of fingernails into his skin as he mercilessly pounded another human being into a mattress or the seat of a car or a desktop. He missed the taste of sweat and the feeling of another person's hair between his fingers. He missed the gasps and the moans and the terse, curt little swears that he could elicit from another human being.

He made a promise to himself right there in that moment: one of his first acts as President was going to be to fuck someone right there on that desk until they trembled and screamed the words, " _Mr. President!_ " so damn loud the entire building heard — and everyone would know exactly who was in charge from that moment forward. His affairs would be loud, unashamed, and semi-public — and he would _wear a fucking condom, for God's sake_.

Not that this was any time to be thinking about that.

A shallow, shuddering breath originating from his chest escaped from between his lips as he squeezed the head of his cock between his thumb and his forefinger. Old memories began to claw their way up to the forefront of his mind — memories of the last time he was actually with someone — of the wet heat of another person's mouth wrapped around his cock. He could almost remember her face, though her name was long-since lost to him. Those weren't the details that mattered, anyway. What did matter was the vacuum of her mouth, the eagerness with which she attempted to take his full length, and the little moans she gave while she was sucking him off — specifically, the way that her voice vibrated against him and made him jump.

Rufus let a quiet, breathy groan bounce out from the back of his throat as the memories came flooding back. The speed with which he stroked himself kicked up a notch as he felt the spark that lights a fire finally ignite in his groin, just beneath his muscles. The fingers of his free hand twitched, and he rubbed them together reflexively in order to combat the growing, directionless energy inside him.

He so badly wanted someone to suck his cock again. In that moment, he didn't even care who. He wanted to watch his cock disappear between another person's lips. He wanted to look on in reverent awe as they started to work up and down his length, taking in a little bit more of him each time. He wanted to run his fingers through their hair and direct them through touch and whispered spoken command — urge them — beckon them ever forward, and witness their obedience as they complied. He wanted them to work for him in the most intimate way a person could serve another, and he wanted them to earn every gasp, every moan, every little word of praise that he would be happy to give them for their performance.

Another groan floated up from the center of his chest at the thought, ultimately manifesting as a low-toned _mmm_ through pursed lips. His hips were moving now, too, rocking into his own hand with a matching speed and rhythm. Rufus pushed himself away from the tile momentarily in order to lean back against the wall instead, freeing up his other hand in the process. The hot water from the shower now beat against his chest and his abs, giving him just that slightest bit extra stimulation. As he continued to stroke and fuck himself at a steady pace, his left hand went further south, gently cupping his balls as he started to caress them with his thumb.

That was another thing that he missed, too. He missed that slight, stinging pain that came from his sack repeatedly smacking against his partner's ass when he fucked them with as much vigor as he wanted to. The sound was always hypnotic and metrinomal, like a drum beat carrying the rhythm of their ragged breaths and strained voices. It had one time reminded him so much of a song that he leaned in, dragged his lips against his partner's ear, and demanded that she continue singing for him.

Rufus arched his back against the tile wall behind him, starting to feel dizzy and lightheaded both from the steam-choked air and his impending orgasm. Strands of blonde hair, gathered together by the water, hung in his face, but he paid them no mind. The only thing he could focus on now was his breathing. Every inhale was a struggle, and every exhale was shuddered and tinged with the sound of his own voice. That fire in his groin was growing hotter by the second, and it had started to travel his body through the causeways of his veins. The muscles in his arms trembled as he continued to stroke the full length of his cock at a feverish pace, and just when he started to think that his knees weren't going to be able to support his body weight anymore — 

— he came with a yell that echoed off of the tiles around him. All of that building pressure released at once, and it was instead replaced by an overwhelming ecstasy that whited out his vision and briefly made him lose all sense of self.

When he finally came down from that sudden and intense high, though, he found that the dizziness still hadn't subsided. It was still nearly impossible to breathe. Rufus brushed the wet hair away from his face, his mess already having been washed away by the shower's stream, and gathered what shaky strength he still had. Standing fully on his own again, he reached over and turned the water off before stepping out of the shower stall entirely.

The air was a bit lighter in the greater area of his bathroom — but only just a bit. More than that, though, Rufus himself felt lighter. It'd been a long damn time since he really took the time to treat himself like that, and it dawned on him that he probably should've been doing it more regularly since his house arrest started.

He filed that thought away for now as something to revisit later as he shook some of the excess water out of his hair with his right hand. With his left, he reached over to grab a towel hanging on the wall — but as he did, the sight of his phone on the countertop caught his eye.

One missed call. He hadn't even heard it ring.

A smirk settled on his lips as he grabbed the towel and his phone and headed out into the free air of the hallway. He had work to do. 

And now, blessedly, he couldn't remember why he stopped doing it in the first place.

**Author's Note:**

> Remember, lads, ladies, and all humans everywhere. When that Quarantine Life gets you down, just masturbate. You'll feel better.
> 
> Constructive criticism always welcome. Thank you for reading!


End file.
